Tag Archives: inspirational

Frosting and Flurries, is a boxed set of five Christmas novellas on Amazon. The other amazing authors in the set are Kimberly Rae Jordan, Cecelia Dowdy, Clare Revell, and Marion Ueckermann. My book is called Moostletoe and it was a great deal of fun working with other writers I know and love! ~~Jan

BLURB of Moostletoe by Jan Elder

Rev. Samantha Evans lands in Moose Creek, Maine, a backwater town with more moose than men. One of her new parishioners chews up new ministers for breakfast, and he’s hell-bent on sending her packing.

Forest ranger Eric Palmer is done with women. With Christmas around the corner, he runs into Sammie, his best friend when they were teenagers. Unlike most women, he trusts her implicitly. But could she ever be more than a friend?

When Samantha’s career is on the line, Eric saves her job, rescuing his own shattered heart. But how does Matilda the town moose factor in?

As they headed toward the fence at the back of the large yard, the trapped moose turned her head and fastened Samantha with the longest, most distressed face she’d ever seen. Somehow, the words “there’s a moose stuck in the fence” had not prepared her for the sight of two hooves sticking to the top of tall pickets.

Poor moosie indeed!

The TV news reporter strode toward Eric and Travis, a determined set to his jaw.

Eric took charge. “Dale, you can film, but be quiet about it and keep well back. I know everybody loves Matilda, but she’s a wild animal and she’s scared. You too, Mr. Tremblay.”

“We’ll do our best to behave.” Dale smirked. “But the TV audience is going to eat this up and we’re here to serve.”

Eric grimaced. “She’s just a moose for crying out loud. People in Aroostook County see them every day.”

The TV crew moved into position. Eric glanced at Samantha. “Sammie you asked what you can do. Your job is to pray we can get this moose out of trouble, fast.”

“Will do.” Samantha nodded and clung to the fence line several yards away. Matilda puffed, her breath sending up a cloud of steam. Samantha’s heart went out to the creature, and she unleashed a silent prayer. If God cared for the lowly sparrow, He surely loved the magnificent moose.

Eric’s eyes zeroed in on the television camera as two men continued to edge closer. “Confound it, Dale, stay back. Don’t you have a zoom on that contraption?”

The cheeky, young reporter lifted his chin. “We’ll stay back as long as you give us an exclusive after the rescue.”

Eric planted his hands on his hips and huffed. “Exclusive? Dale, what do you think this is? Portland? You’re the only TV station there is in these parts. Just keep your distance. Hey, Tremblay? You have a small hatchet?”

A protest erupted from the cameraman. “Surely, you’re not going to hurt that wild animal.”

Eric shook his head. “No, of course we’re not going to hurt her. We have to break up the fence.”

Dale cocked his head. “Why can’t you just yard on it until her feet come out?”

“Do I look suicidal? I’m not getting anywhere near those back hooves. We have a crazed five-hundred-pound moose who’s not thinking straight, here.”

The cameraman grumbled and when Eric turned his back, the cameraman made a hand gesture that meant … Samantha wasn’t sure what it meant, but it couldn’t have been nice.

Matilda shifted her back feet, tried to maneuver backward and pitched a bit to the side. The wooden fence scraped against her front fetlocks and she bellowed, a terrible noise that rang hollow in the damp, night air. Terrified, her eyes flicked back and forth, the whites showing. Helpless, Samantha prayed harder and shuffled her feet to keep the circulation moving, her chest squeezing.

The cameraman hefted his camera and aimed it at the reporter. The show was about to begin.

Jan Elder is a Christian romance writer with a zeal for telling real, relateable stories. She strives to write novels that will strengthen the reader’s faith, while providing an entertaining and engrossing love story.

Happily married for thirteen years to supportive husband, Steve, the two live in central Maryland.

My name is Molly Marie Sanders—but, for some reason, my mom thinks it’s funny to call me ‘Molly Lou.’ I live in Redbend, Oklahoma in a two-story house with my dad, mom, three-year-old brother, Max, and little Chihuahua named Boo.

I graduated high school in May, and last month started classes at Redbend College to pursue a degree in elementary education. I’m loving school so far, and have made a ton of new friends. But I miss my two best friends, Bianca and Lenni, like crazy. I can’t wait until Christmas break so that we can all meet up in Redbend and hang out. I mean, we see each other all the time on Facebook, but it’s not the same. I want to hug their necks—although I’ll probably have to catch Bianca, first. She’s never been one for physical affection.

Continuing to live at home while attending school works out well for my family. My dad works for an accounting firm, and Mom runs an online antique business, so I spend a lot of time helping around the house and caring for my little brother—which I enjoy doing.

I attribute my love of learning and interest in the educational field to a very special teacher I had in high school, named Mrs. Piper. Her lessons both inside and out of the classroom are the reason I decided to apply to Redbend College to pursue a degree in education. My dream is to someday co-teach with Mrs. Piper in the same creative writing classroom where she helped me find myself—and Jesus.

Are you a pet person?

Yes! I have a sweet little six-year-old Chihuahua named Boo. He was the baby of the family until my little brother, Max, came along three years ago. But Boo was a good sport about Max’s arrival, and didn’t get jealous. He loves Max, and even shares his dog bowl with him sometimes—when Mom isn’t looking. Lol.

Do you have any hobbies?

Other than running after Max and Boo, I don’t really have many hobbies—unless you count listening to music. Dizzy is my all-time favorite singer. I’ve loved her since I was fourteen, and have every album she’s ever recorded and every DVD she’s ever made. Lenni, Bianca, and I have gone to every single show she’s played in Oklahoma City. Her music embodies so many of our shared high school memories—both good and bad.

And speaking of music, thanks to my mom’s persistence, I even enjoy listening to 80’s music now and again. The two of us have gone to the shows of several throwback hair-bands. Mom’s favorite concert was one we went to last summer, given by a band called SQUALLER. Four guys with tight pants, protruding bellies, and thinning hair, attempting to look like angst-ridden teenagers. To me, they just looked like a bunch of car salesmen squinting into the sun. They pretty much sounded the way they looked, but I didn’t tell Mom that.

What are your reading tastes?

I guess I’m kind of a nerd, because I enjoy old books—really old books, like from the 1800’s and early 1900’s. The kind everyone moans about studying in Lit class. I’m especially fond of classic horror—The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson, and The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux. I’m fascinated by the fact that no matter how old the story is, the characters remain relatable. Humanity is timeless. I also love reading the Bible, for that exact same reason. The stories are ageless, and the truth never changes.

List your favorite movie of all time and why.

I’m partial to The Wizard of Oz. I guess it might have something to do with my mother’s obsession over all things Oz related. Maybe she finally rubbed off on me. There was a time in my life when I absolutely hated the film—also a result of Mom’s Oz obsession. In addition to her ruby slipper keychain, Glenda the Good Witch coffee mug, and the flying monkey mobile she hung above Max’s baby crib, Mom had once placed a life-sized Wicked Witch of the West statue on our front porch. We were brand new in town, and you can only imagine the teasing I endured when the school bus pulled up in front of my house. There stood that stupid witch, in all her green glory, and nowhere near Halloween. The thing even added to the wrath and resentment Bianca felt for me back then. She thought I’d put the statue there as a way to make fun of her Witcha’be lifestyle. I’m happy to say I’ve grown past all that now, and love nothing more than to sing “Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead,” right along with the colorized munchkins of Oz.

What’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you?

The summer before my freshman year of high school, my family and I moved from Crystal, Texas to Redbend, Oklahoma. Initially, the move wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. Our family spent the last two weeks of June at the lake with the Flemming family, which was really cool. Neal Flemming is my dad’s boss, and his daughter, Lenni, and I became instant friends. Lenni told me all about her best friend, Bianca—how beautiful she was, what a great actor she was, and how she made all her own outfits. She couldn’t wait to introduce us.

Unfortunately, the relationship between Bianca and me didn’t turn out quite as warm and fuzzy as Lenni planned. Bianca didn’t take too well to Lenni having a new friend, and strongly felt three was a crowd. Add the fact Lenni somehow forgot to tell me Bianca was a witch in training—aka Witcha’be—and, yeah, things got pretty crazy.

When summer ended, things got even crazier. Not only was I starting my first year of high school, I was going to be the new kid. I didn’t know anyone, except Lenni—and our friendship made Bianca mad. Cursing mad. So mad, she vowed to destroy me while honing her Witcha’be craft in the hallways of Redbend High. (The fact that I’m prone to violently hiccup whenever I’m scared didn’t help matters.)

If it weren’t for my creative writing teacher’s encouragement, I don’t know how I would’ve made it through those first couple of weeks of school. Mrs. Piper taught me that God hadn’t given me a spirit of fear; but of power, love, and a sound mind. Her faith in God—and in what He could accomplish through me—gave me the courage to become friends with a bitter enemy.

Thankfully, all of that is way behind me now. Bianca, Lenni, and I have remained best friends throughout our high school years, and are now excitedly sharing our college experiences through calls, text messages, and Facebook. I know it sounds cliché, but I truly believe the three of us really will stay best friends forever.

BLURB

Redbend High school seniors, Molly, Lenni, and Bianca, are enjoying their last spring break before graduation when a massive tornado touches down in the very park they are exploring. From out of nowhere, a courageous stranger appears, risking his own life to save the girls from the deadly storm, and leaving them thunderstruck.

As his injuries heal, the rescuer claims each of the girls’ hearts while reclaiming his strength. Soon Molly, Lenni, and Bianca find themselves caught in a fierce competition for the wounded hero’s affection. One hurt feeling leads to another, and before long their friendship is torn and barely hanging, like a battered leaf in a hailstorm.

Is the friendship Molly, Lenni, and Bianca share strong enough to withstand the brutal winds of jealousy, heartache, and betrayal?

Anna works as a middle school secretary in her beloved hometown of Anadarko, Oklahoma, where she resides with her high school sweetheart-turned-husband, Tim. She has written for as long as she can remember. She still has most of her tattered creations—leftover stories she was unable to sell on the playground for a dime—written in childish handwriting on notebook paper, bound with too many staples. Her love of storytelling has grown throughout the years, and she is thrilled her tales are now worth more than ten cents.

“What a rush!” Bianca dropped her head back and pushed off in the swing. “The rain feels amazing.” She laughed as she swung, rain soaking her hair and clothing. Lightning tore through the sky. The crack of thunder that followed seemed to shake the earth.

Molly didn’t know which was scarier—the black clouds overhead, boiling like a witch’s brew or the echo of Bianca’s laughter as she soared skyward toward the storm. Red hair flying, she winked one black-lined eye at Molly and swung even higher. Molly’s stomach churned along with the rumbling sky.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Lenni tucked her blonde hair behind her ear as the wind whipped more strands into her face. “I think I see a funnel.” She pointed to a monstrous cone-shaped cloud just above the train trestle.

“Seriously, Len? We’re in Oklahoma, remember?” Bianca dragged her feet in the red dirt, slowing the swing. “It’s nothing but a thunderstorm. We’re in for a little rain, at most. You might be sweet like sugar, but trust me, you won’t melt.” Bianca rolled her eyes. “Graduation is only eight weeks away. Relax and have some fun on our very last spring break together.”

Molly hiccupped loudly as the swirling cloud Lenni had pointed out dipped below the others. She always got the hiccups when she was scared. “Lenni’s right. We need to take cover.” She shot her gaze around the park, looking for shelter.

“Geez, not you, too, Mol? You’ve lived here long enough to know there’s constantly a storm on the horizon this time of year. People are always dragging one another to the cellar, only to learn it was a false alarm. Besides, do you think those guys would still be working on the trestle if a tornado was overhead?”

A big raindrop splashed the end of Molly’s nose as she looked toward the old trestle. Five or six men in bright orange vests moved quickly along the tracks, climbing over the rails and scurrying under the bridge as the rain began to pour.

Lenni widened her eyes at Molly, her gaze desperate. “The armory building beside the water tower is a community shelter. Maybe we can get in.” She clamped her hands together over her wet hair, holding it in place.

Molly glanced toward the water tower that pierced the angry sky a football-field length away. Could they make it in time? Hailstones pinged off the large metal swing set like warning shots. They had to try.

“Bianca, let’s go!” Molly screamed, the shriek of the wind stealing the words from her mouth and the breath from her lungs.

“No!”

Molly lunged for Bianca’s airborne legs. Bianca’s heavy boots landed in Molly’s chest, knocking her flat on her back in the wet grass.

Bianca jumped from the swing, landing at Molly’s side. “What the heck? Are you crazy?” Her saturated curls whipped in the wind, reminding Molly of Medusa’s snakes. “You’re lucky I’m wearing motorcycle boots instead of stilettos. You’d have been impaled,” Bianca yelled, yanking Molly up by the wrists.

“Look!” Lenni shouted, pointing toward the trestle. A man wearing a hardhat jogged in their direction, scooping his arms through the air, motioning for them to come.

Through the rain, Molly spotted a blur of orange under the bridge—the neon vests of the other workers.

The tornado siren blasted, tearing through the train-like roar of the storm as the girls took off toward the trestle. Bianca caught Molly’s arm as they ran, jerking her close, putting her mouth to Molly’s ear. “One catcall or whistle from any of those guys, and they’ll get a motorcycle boot upside the head!” she shouted.

Leave it to Bianca, looking to set a bunch of railroad workers straight as the world blew to pieces around her.

“In here!” the guy in the hardhat yelled as they neared the trestle. Bianca glared as he shoved her under the bridge beside the huddled railroad crew. Quickly he turned and grasped Lenni’s shoulder, ramming her into Bianca.

“The ground’s soft here. Watch your step!” he shouted in Molly’s ear as he pushed against her back.

She nodded then yelped as a chunk of blowing debris banged hard against her skull. Stars burst behind her eyes as loose rocks shifted beneath her feet. Hardhat Guy wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders, steadying her as he hauled her under the trestle.

“Hold on!” He pressed her fingers to the rusted steel frame of the bridge, squeezing her knuckles beneath his strong hands.

Molly gripped the rail, the rough metal biting into her palm. Rain trickled down the side of her face and into her mouth, tasting like blood.

Suddenly, Hardhat Guy lost his footing as the embankment began to crumble. He lunged for the railing, wrapping his hand around a steel beam as his hardhat jarred from his head and tumbled down the embankment. Molly turned, peeking over her shoulder to see the hat careening into the shallow creek twenty feet below.

The trestle shook as the wind roared even louder. Molly prayed as she held to the vibrating metal, convinced Satan himself must be driving his long black train over the bridge.

Mingled with the ferocious sound of the wind and clatter of hail, she thought she heard whimpering. She opened her eyes and glanced over. Next to her, Lenni held tight to the same beam Molly clutched. In the near-dark, Molly could see her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth moving silently in prayer. Shaken up, but not crying.

Molly looked to the other side. With only half his body wedged under the shelter, their rescuer struggled to keep his grip on the steel framing. The wind ripped at his dark hair and yanked at his orange vest. His tensed muscles looked like the exposed roots of a sturdy oak tree. At his feet, a small dog whined, its eyes wide with terror. Miraculously, the animal hadn’t been blown away by the wind.

Molly scrunched her body against Lenni’s. Her stomach cartwheeled as her feet slipped, sending more stones rolling down the steep ridge. No use. There wasn’t enough space on the disintegrating ledge for all of them.

The dog pawed at the guy’s jeans, begging to be held, reminding Molly of her own Chihuahua, Boo. Her heart hurt for the scared baby. She pulled her hand from the beam and bent down to scoop up the little dog.

The rescuer beat her to it, using one hand to lift the dog by the nape of the neck and bring it to his chest. His hand trembled wildly on the rail as the wind tried to wrestle him from beneath the bridge. He needed to hold on with both hands.

“Give him here!” Molly yelled, grabbing for the dog.

The gusting wind distorted the guy’s face, turning his brown eyes to slits. Grimacing like a bodybuilder deadlifting three-hundred pounds, he pushed the dog into Molly’s hand.

And then the rescuer was gone. Sucked from beneath the trestle like a stale, floorboard French fry through a hose-vac.

Today I’m interviewing a writer from Prism Book Group, Lee Carver, about how she’s applied her real-life experiences to her latest release. A copy of her highlighted title will be given away to one lucky commenter.

What is your background for writing about the Brazilian Amazon?

I’ve led a much more exciting life than any girl from small-town Alabama could ever hope for. After living and rearing our children in Greece, Saudi Arabia, Argentina, Indonesia, Brazil, and Spain, my husband and I felt a strong and persistent call to missions in the Amazon. He took early retirement from international banking and became a missionary pilot over the jungles of Brazil. He had been a Navy pilot before the business career and longed to fly again in retirement. The Lord put that yearning to good use for His kingdom’s work. Those six and a half years were the best and the hardest of our lives. (Read the story in Flying for Jesus, a not-for-profit book on Amazon.)

That explains your logline.

“Fiction without Borders” describes most of the stories I write. A Secret Life, my first traditionally-published novel, is a World War II story based largely in Germany. Only three months later, in December of last year, came this contemporary Brazilian novel, Love Takes Flight. The next novel will be different, though. We’re living in Texas now, and I’ve just completed the draft of a contemporary novel set in a town west of Fort Worth. The important thing is that I have lived in the settings I write about. My jungle scenes don’t come from Tarzan re-runs.

Do you start a new story with the plot, characters, or setting first?

Probably the characters in the setting, but the first words wait for an inciting action. Plot is much more important to the story than miles of internal monologue.

Then do you plot the story first, maybe even outline it?

I haven’t the patience. The rough outline is there, the shape of the story looms in my mind for weeks, and I know how it will end. But I get to a point where I have to start writing. If I plotted every detail—or heaven forbid, outlined it—only the hard work of getting it on the page would be left. No, I discover the story as I write it.

So you’re more of a pantser than a plotter?

Look, I have difficulty categorizing myself. There’s all this talk about left-brained and right-brained people. I majored in biology and chemistry but minored in French and eventually studied nine languages. I taught high school sciences, which I loved doing, but also had a pottery business in Arizona, Atlanta, and Argentina. I cook from scratch (largely to avoid allergens), sew, crochet with the Prayer Shawl Ministry, serve as a Stephen Minister, sing in the choir and play piano. My mother drilled into me that “if you don’t use a talent, you lose it.” I may have developed some talents along the way that I didn’t even have.

What was your purpose in writing Love Takes Flight, and what do you hope the readers take from it?

I wanted to tell what the missionary life is really like, and give an inside view of who modern missionaries are. Along with that is the theme of how to recognize a call from God and take the courage and faith to grasp that life and relationship. Whether at home or abroad, it’s the most amazing, dynamic experience possible.

What would you do differently if you were writing Love Takes Flight today?

I would search for a title which didn’t make it sound like just a romance. It’s so much more than that, but I like having a strong romance to carry the premise. It’s a fun and exciting story, replete with real-world Brazilian life.

BLURB

Volunteering in the Amazon to escape a broken heart, American R.N. Camille Ringold fears she has lost the chance to be married to a doctor and live well in suburbia. Serving two weeks with missionaries living out a sacred calling, she considers whether a more meaningful life might be hers.

When the Wings of Help plane is hijacked, she and missionary pilot Luke Strong escape into the jungle. Aided by a river village, they recover the plane, but she may be fired for returning to the U.S. late. Two weeks become four when she chooses to care for Luke through his malaria. Priorities change as experiences of faith mount. Where is the intersection of God’s will and her selfish desires?

Returning to Alabama, she discovers the controlling side of her rejected sweetheart. He covers his lies with rationalizations. Dangers of the Amazon fade compared to threats from the man she once wanted to marry.

Luke pulled off his earphones and yelled above the engine’s roar. “Camille, get ready to scramble. Squeeze out behind my seat. Now.”

“What’s happening?” Her voice trembled in a high pitch as she released her seatbelt.

“A hijacking.” He shouted as calmly as possible, considering the gun directed toward his chest. “The nice man is going to let us out here. Get away from the plane and run for the woods without looking back.”

Luke had the barest few seconds in the cockpit while the criminals focused on Camille. He cut the engine and pushed the door wide.

“What? Hey!” Aderson shouted his protest. “I told you to keep it running.”

“Oh. Sorry. Force of habit. No problem. You know how to fly it, right? Just energize the starter and give it fuel at sixteen percent.”

Exiting to the top step, he reached in and pulled on Camille’s upper arm as she bent around his seat. “Get out fast.” He let go and sprang onto the float, his heart in his throat because she wasn’t moving fast enough.

Camille squeezed past the seat and onto the first rung, duffle in hand.

He pointed at her bag. “Leave it.”

“But I just got it ba—”

“Leave it, Camille. It isn’t worth dying for.” He expected her to argue, remembering how stubbornly she had stayed in the village during the first mission trip. His bark must have communicated the sense of emergency. She dropped the bag inside the plane and scrambled down to the float.

“Jump, Camille.” They splashed into the water, and she thrashed two meters to shore. With her relatively safe, Luke pushed with all his strength on the float, shoving the beloved Cessna back into the river flow.

The hijacker yelled. “It’s not starting. What did you do?”

Luke faced the enemy with all the bravado he could muster. “Give it about ninety seconds, and try again. You were right. I shouldn’t have cut the engine. It was running a little hot.” Not exactly a lie. Of course the engine was hot. Lord, please get us out of here.

Snippet from a missionary still serving in the Amazon: “Throughout the pages of this book, you can see, hear, feel and even taste the Amazon region of Brazil, so exquisitely described in all of its detail! The author captures the hearts of the people who live on and around the many rivers in the Amazon region. It reminded me again of all the things we love about the Brazilian people of the Amazon.” Rachel M. Joy, Missionary with Asas de Socorro, Brazil

Welcome to Nancy Bolton, author of both contemporary and historical stories. She’s sharing her writing life and a peek at her release from Prism Book Group, The Right Ingredients. (Details for the giveaway are at the end of the post)

Tell us a bit about you and your background.

I live in rural upstate New York. It’s humorous how most non-New Yorkers think if you say you’re from New York, that you’re from New York City, or another large metropolis. It’s funny because New York is a big state, and has tons of state parks, forests and long stretches of sparsely populated back roads. Like the dirt road I live on! I’m married for 41 years, have 5 sons and two grandchildren, a boy and a girl.

What are your hobbies away from the computer?

I like to cook, and am in the process of learning how to lacto-ferment instead of canning. Very interesting and much healthier! Plus I like to knit, crochet, garden, and listen to music.

Do you start a new story with the plot or characters first?

Usually the characters.

If you use music while writing, name your favorite types.

Classical, especially Beethoven symphonies conducted by Leonard Bernstein. That’s my standard. Then, when writing historicals, I also listen to music of the time period. It really enhances the writing experience for me.

Can you share a tip about what you do when you get stuck in creating a story?

I usually have more than one story going, so if I hit a snag with one, I work on one of the other ones, until I’m refreshed. Also, during those times, I try to get caught up on household tasks like cleaning and organizing. I’m usually always behind on those. Really behind!

What was your biggest surprise in the editing/revision process?

How many times I repeat words or phrases. Embarrassing! But I’m learning!

Do you write in a genre other than the one of this release?

I also have historical romances, women’s fiction, a fantasy I’m working on, and a children’s book I’ve started.

Do you use visual aids (storyboards, Pinterest, collages) when plotting or writing?

When I write historicals, I do. I like to look at pictures or drawings of the people and objects during the time period.

In what genre do you read?

I read practically everything! I’ve got an extremely curious mind.

What do you hope readers gain from your stories?

I hope they gain an understanding of how faith and love are relationships that challenge everyone in different ways. I find the exploration of these vital relationships endlessly fascinating!

Thanks for interviewing me!

BLURB:

Ann’s hectic work responsibilities demand all her time and effort, and what was once a useful, satisfactory life has become a burden. Her bakery partner Susan has lost none of her enthusiasm for their business, and Ann can’t understand her exuberance, or her friend’s Christian faith. So she trudges along, hiding her dissatisfaction from Susan, resigned to a life of work, sleep and problems.

Unexpected comments offered by two different people cause a crack in Ann’s armor and her thoughts careen into unexpected directions. Attention from a young widower with a son challenges Ann’s resolve to stay safe and uninvolved. Susan’s example of faith through trial furthers Ann’s curiosity about God. Ann must choose to step toward the unfamiliar freedom of giving and receiving love, or stay in the shadows, stuck in the grip of past hurt and long-standing barriers.

From a review:

“This debut novel reminds me of the early Mitford novels. A slice of life story with a gentler feeling to it. Some interesting plot twists surprised me, and I fell in love with the characters.” –Lena Nelson Dooley, multi-award winning author of the McKenna’s Daughters series–Maggie’s Journey, Mary’s Blessing, and Catherine’s Pursuit

EXCERPT:

Ann hoped the bakery stayed empty of customers. She needed every bit of concentration to decorate the cake the way she envisioned it. Her light blue eyes scrutinized the last patch of undecorated surface. Almost done. Shifting on the chair, elbows planted on the low icing table, she pressed her lips together and leaned closer. She calculated the perfect angle to hold the frosting bag.

A stray hair drifted into her line of vision and she blew out a quick upward breath to deflect it. How on earth could any strand escape her coiled braid? She should have worn the hairnet. But hairnets were old-womanish. Still, she preferred them to the flimsy paper hats she and Susan wore the first year they opened the bakery. They never fit well, and exasperated her by sailing off her head when she rushed past the ceiling fans.

The bell on the bakery’s front door tinkled. Ann sighed and wished Susan would return from deliveries. She glanced through the archway and out the picture window. Maybe she’d appear. No such luck. Oh, well.

“Be right there,” she called. Ann set down the icing bag, rose from the chair and angled her hips to slip past the table. As she stepped sideways, two bees zoomed in and flew toward her. She startled, brushed both hands to scare them away and lost her balance.

In helpless shock, her stomach fell as her forearms, palms and chin landed on the cake and sunk in. She groaned, lifted her head and stared in total horror. Loud moans erupted.. “No, no, no.”

As though a protest would change anything. Tears gathered. She drew away from the cake, and straightened up. One little wobble, and her handiwork was destroyed.

“Are you okay?”

Ann stared at a tall, sturdy man in jeans and a tee shirt. He stood in the archway between the front and back rooms and surveyed the scene. “I’d have stayed out there, but I heard you cry out and thought I’d better check on you.”

Ann’s lip trembled. She pushed against the tide of emotion. No tears in front of customers. The two bees danced on the frosting, poking around on her ruined cake. “It’s all their fault. I tried to do everything right, and see what happened?”

She pointed a frosted finger at them, while her tears overflowed. Through the blur, she glanced from the excited insects over to the man. She blinked to clear her vision. His eyes were sympathetic, and his mouth wore a suppressed grin. He stood in a firm stance, yet appeared poised to offer assistance. Ann searched for a clean part of her arm and brought it up to first brush the tears, then the frosting beard off her chin. She must look like some sort of clown.

The merriment left his face. “I’m sorry. I think maybe they flew in when I opened the door. Can I help?”

“That’s kind.” Ann attempted a smile. “But I don’t think you can fix this cake. And please don’t feel bad about the bees. They love to break in here with all this sugar.”

She strode to the sink and turned on the water to wash off the pastel colored mess. “I’ll be out front in a moment.”

“Okay.”

Ann finished her clean-up, wiped off her chin, hands and arms, and dabbed the towel on her eyes. She tied on a clean apron, straightened her shoulders and stepped to the front room of the bakery.

“Well, you look better.” He laughed. “I’m sorry, but that was pretty funny.”

Ann imagined her ridiculous appearance before she cleaned up and couldn’t help joining him. When their laughter subsided, he asked, “Feeling better?”

“I’ve decorated it for almost an hour, and now I’ve got to start the whole thing over from scratch. My business partner isn’t back from deliveries and I have more cakes to make.” She didn’t like to complain.

Take a breath. She shrugged. “… Anyway.”

He grinned. “You seem pretty young to run a bakery.”

“I don’t feel young today.” She grimaced and shook her head. “I guess it’s technically not a bakery, either. We only make cakes and cookies. Susan and I work here together, four years now, since college.” She blew out a breath. “Gets pretty crazy sometimes. Who knew the organic cake business would be so popular?”

He chuckled. “I’m not surprised, after all the raves I’ve heard. You know, I’ve had days like yours.” He stretched out his hand. “My name’s Tom Tillman. Sure hope your afternoon gets better.”

She clasped his offered hand and gave it a shake. “Ann Shaw. Around here most days are hectic, though I don’t usually fall on the cakes. I want to thank you for offering to help.”

“Wish I could have. I’m a capable farmer, handy with the livestock, but no good at cake fixing. Or baking, which is why I’m here.” He spread his hands out towards the display case.

“Hey, how ironic. A farmer with the last name Tillman. Till-man. Do you get teased?”

“Sure. Especially back in college. They loved to goof on me and make up nicknames. They also told me I had no choice in professions because of it.”

They shared a laugh.

“So, that’s why you’re a farmer?”

Tom shook his head. “No, I’d be one even if my name was… Ann Shaw.”

Ann’s cheeks grew warm at the way his tone dropped. She’d never connected to a customer so fast. He was easy to talk to.

Nancy Shew Bolton is a wife of 41 years, mother of five grown sons, and grandmother to a boy and girl. Ever since she learned to write, she would jot down her thoughts and impressions in little snippets of inspiration in the form of poetry, song lyrics, or short essays. About six years ago, she decided to try her hand at writing a full length book. She’s since written five works of fiction, two non-fiction, and is working on an idea for a children’s book, as well as more fiction manuscripts. Writing a full-length work is much more challenging than she thought, and she has received so much valuable assistance from other writers, especially from the ACFW critique groups. Her husband has been supportive of her long hours spent at the keyboard. Many thanks to her beloved Johnny! And now she’s under contract with Prism Book Group with a novel set to be released in September 2014! What a journey! She thanks God and His Son for her life, her loved ones and the spark of creativity inside every person. She believes each person is a unique creation, with their own special voice and place in this amazing universe. God’s handiwork amazes her every day!

Wouldn’t it be great if we could look ahead and see our destiny? There are fortunetellers who claim that for a price they can tell you what lies ahead. Most of it’s lucky guessing and common knowledge which statically fits 95% of all individuals.

What if an object could change the outcome of our future? People everywhere would struggle to get hold of any item-if they thought it would clear the path to a carefree life.

The truth is there is no way of looking into a crystal ball and knowing what you’ll be doing five years from now and I’ve never known a rabbit’s foot to guaranteeing that life will be a bed of roses. Think about it, the rose is a beautiful soft flower, but the stem has thorns. At times, we all face an unpleasant situation and wish there was a magic potion for problems. Some of us have an inclination to hold onto sentimental objects, and place our dreams around them. YA fantasy books portray many of those imagines.

One day I passed by my oldest grandson reading a fantasy book. I glanced at it and immediately thought. I need to write about a different kind of magic, a divine guidance that comes from faith and trust. Over the next few days Stone of Destiny was born.

The novel focuses on a sapphire ring and the importance it plays in a family’s life. I choose this symbol because the dark-blue gem is my birthstone. Once the manuscript was submitted to Prism Book Group and the edits began, I began to second-guess the story.

Does it really fit the message I want to convey?

Have I been true to myself while writing this book?

As I pondered those questions Joan, the editor-in-chief of Prism Book Group emailed and said, “Mary, have you researched the Christian meaning of the sapphire stone?” She sent me a link to follow. I hadn’t check out anything about the sapphire, but as I read the information, I smiled. The words, “the sapphire symbolizes mental clarity, faithfulness and truth,” explained the underlining plot of my story. When I continued, the explanation said, “The sapphire is often called the stone of destiny,” I knew that once again, the Lord used someone to answer my concerns and that the fictional story should be told.

Stone of Destiny blurb:

Taylor Harrison has given up on everything but her work. The youngest CEO of Mugful’s Beverage Company, her life is complete. That is, until her grandmother asks her to oversee renovations at the family home and find the missing heirloom.

First contact with what she believes is an insignificant ring, lost for fifty years, sends her life spinning. Taylor experiences strange dreams. Feelings surface; she doesn’t understand; thoughts that should remain unspoken, voiced.

Taylor’s emotional journey begins, testing a heart as cold as the ring itself.

Is this a fairy-tale or her soul, reaching out for a life she can only find through faith and trust in God?